


this thing upon me (howls like a beast)

by byesexualniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 07:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byesexualniall/pseuds/byesexualniall
Summary: Niall puts it off for as long as he can, until it’s February fourth and they’ve got ten days until the announcement and Louis and Liam are out of town and he’s alone, bored, and a little antsy in LA.Harry just landed a few hours ago, Niall knows, but he’s bored. And he’s had a beer or two. And he’s watched a couple episodes of that show, the one where they give people crazy tattoos and watch how they react. And he’s emboldened, maybe, by the way the people on TV don’t look like they’re in pain at all. And then he’s picking up the phone before he can think too much about it, plucking Harry’s contact out from where it sits at #8 on his favorites, and pressing it to his ear.It only takes two rings before he answers, chipper, on the other end of the line, for someone who’s just gotten off a flight from Tokyo to LAX.“I’m ready,” says Niall, in lieu of a greeting, “and if I don’t do it right now I’ll chicken out.”—or: the one where Niall gets a tattoo and comes out on the same day. Oh, and One Direction reunites. On Valentine’s Day.





	this thing upon me (howls like a beast)

It’s 2015, and Niall promises. Liam, Louis, and Harry have all done it already and Niall’s the only one, out of the four of them, who’s holding out, when he’s usually the first on board for anything that’ll keep the band together longer. But he promises, after enough pushing and shoving and pinching and whinging, from Harry, he swears on his own life, on the life of Harry’s succulent (Peter the Cactus) that he’ll do it.

“So it’s a promise,” Louis slurs, gin and tonic in one hand, cigarette in the other, leaning forward, across the table, to put his face close to Niall’s. They’re tucked into a plushy booth at the back of a nightclub in Madrid, straying away from the VIP area, spending some together, just the four of them, for the first time in a long time. “Before One Direction gets back together, you’ll do it.”

Niall takes a gulp of Guinness, smooth down his throat. It’s not as good in Madrid, Guinness. “I’ll do it.”

 “You won’t,” Louis’ breath splashes across Niall’s nose. Liam touches his shoulder and pulls him back. “I don’t believe you,” Louis smiles, settling back into the cushioned booth.

 “He will,” says Harry, low and slow, his voice right next to Niall’s ear, “he promised.”

 “And you promised you would wait until _after_ the hiatus began to sign a solo contract with the Azoffs,” Louis counters, eyes not straying from Niall’s face. Niall bites back his protest, the one he knows Harry doesn’t deserve, but the one that claws at his throat anyway: _technically, he did wait, even though he’s verbally committed he hasn’t actually—_

 “Leave it,” says Liam, just as Niall snaps himself out of it and says, “I’ll do it, I promise.”

 They stare each other down in silence, the sounds of the busy nightclub booming around them, muffled, almost, as if they’re underwater. There’s a part of Niall that thinks it’ll never happen, that the reunion will never come, that he’ll never have to do it. Harry pinches his thigh under the table, Liam glances at Louis, and Niall says, “shake on it.”

They do. 

\--

It’s 2020, and it’s happening. The call comes in at the beginning of July, as Niall’s second solo tour is winding down and Harry’s third album is just hitting shelves and they are, all four of them, starting to get bored.

Liam, never shy, makes the first move, revives the WhatsApp chat after four months of silence, sends a video from OTRA, captions it: _I miss this, boys._

Louis only takes thirty seconds to say, _me too, lad_ and Niall, too, replies, without thinking much, _always do._  

Harry replies the next morning, 5am Los Angeles time, _Heading to the gym._ Then, _four way call after?_

And so it goes. It’s a four way call, then it’s a Skype meeting, then it’s a meeting with the label in London, then it’s a quick trip to LA, then it’s a booked studio time, then it’s tour planning and merch designing and everything, in silence, in private, all four of them in separate cars and separate planes and separate entrances to the same building at separate times. They get through the entire summer, all of autumn, the very beginning of winter, without anyone finding out.

“You know,” says Louis in December, feet up on Liam’s coffee table, bag of Malteasers in his lap, “you still haven’t done it, Niall.”

“You’re not serious, are you?” Niall reaches for a Malteaser, tosses one to Liam, too, who catches it in his mouth, throws his hands up in the air, and lets Louis talk over him as he shouts “oi, did you see that?!” to no one in particular.

“Of course I’m serious,” Louis pauses his video game, “you promised. You shook on it, lad.”

 “I’m not—”

“We announce the reunion on Valentine’s Day,” Louis cuts him off, “you _have_ to do it before then.”

“Do what?” Harry wanders into the living room, toting a plate of sliced bell peppers and a glass of red wine. Niall nearly laughs at him; Liam actually does.

 “Get the fucking tattoo, for fuck’s sake. You _shook on it_ , Niall.” Louis isn’t budging, not even when Niall kicks him in the thigh, reaches for his candy, tries to knock his controller out of his hand.

“Oh yeah,” Harry offers Louis a slice of pepper. Instead, Louis plops a handful of Malteasers onto the plate. “You did promise, Niall.”

“You can’t go back on a promise,” is Liam’s helpful contribution, around the loud _crunch_ of him biting into a sliver of yellow pepper. “Tattoo or no reunion, mate.”  

“I mean, the reunion is happening whether I get the sodding tattoo or not,” Niall goes for the Malteasers again—something about raw pepper skeeves him out. “We’ve signed the contracts and booked the venues, so that’s happening. And it’s my body so—”

 “Bullshit,” Louis sings, long and drawn out, in the key of one of their new songs, the one they’ll drop alongside the announcement this Valentine’s Day. “You promised. I’ll kick you out of the band and call Zayn if I have to.”

“You don’t even have Zayn’s number,” Harry’s drained his glass of wine already, cheeks flushing high with it. “Niall’s the only one of us who does.” 

“And I’m not giving it to you,” Niall declares, using his arms to help himself off the couch. He meanders into the kitchen, trying not to make it look like he’s running away, while Liam and Louis start to bicker over which type of pepper tastes better: yellow or red.

Liam’s kitchen is well-stocked, he must’ve had the shop delivered just a few days ago, and Niall feels spoiled for choice as he roots through the pantry, toiling to decide between popcorn and cheddar bunnies. He barely notices when Harry materializes behind him, carrying, this time, a full bottle of wine. 

They stand in comfortable silence for a moment as Niall chooses, the sound of snack bags rustling and Harry sipping wine the only noise in the pantry. Liam and Louis probably didn’t even notice Harry’d disappeared, Niall thinks, what with the way they get along like a house on fire, like no time’s passed at all. It makes his heart all warm in his chest, like he’s the one chugging red wine, here.

 “You don’t have to do it, you know,” Harry says, finally, and when Niall turns around he’s sitting, criss-cross-applesauce, on the pantry floor, bottle between his legs. “It _is_ your body.”

 Niall settles down next to Harry, wincing at the way his knee protests. He’s got a box of Chips Ahoy ripe for opening, and Harry doesn’t even have to lean over to run his fingers, fleetingly, over Niall’s bad knee.

“I want to,” Niall decides. He offers Harry the first cookie, tries not to raise his eyebrows when he actually takes it. “Like, to have the tattoo, I know it’s meaningful and all. It’s just the—the actually getting it, that I don’t want.”

Harry passes the bottle of wine. Niall has it to his lips when Harry says, “it’ll only take five minutes, if that. Really tiny. We could get someone to come to your house and do it, even.”

“I don’t want that shit in my house,” the wine is damn good, enough for Niall to lift it to his eyes and take a glance at the label: a shiraz, from the Barossa valley, in Australia. Twin somethings—the label is worn off. He’ll have to ask Liam where he got it, later. “I’d think about it every time I was in the room. Be scarring. Literally and emotionally.”

Harry hums thoughtfully when Niall passes the bottle back, then says, “wanna go just you and me? Without those two? Would be chiller that way, less stress for you.” 

There’s something about the way he offers it. They’ve been doing things “just you and me” for over a decade, now, fucking off to cause trouble somewhere else while Liam and Louis bicker, or write, or do whatever it is that guys with serious girlfriends do—there’s nothing new, or different, or special about the idea of Niall and Harry, alone, together. But there’s something in the way he asks, in the way he looks, that makes something kick in Niall’s stomach.

He’s about to say yes, please, just you and me, just like old times, when the pantry door swings open and Liam, red bell pepper smushed all down the front of his shirt, says “Oh, there you guys are.”

 “Hello, Liam,” Harry stands up like they weren’t just staring at each other, wide eyes and red wine on their lips, and Niall has to shake his head to get over himself. Harry’s up easy, strong thighs and all, but he offers a hand to Niall, pulling him off the floor so he doesn’t have to put pressure on his knee. He’s talking to Liam about the best way to get pepper stains out of his clothes as they make their way back into the living room, and when Niall remembers he interrupts, hand on Liam’s back, and says, “hey, mate, where’d you get this wine? It’s really good.”

 Liam looks up from his stained shirt for a minute, eyeing the bottle in Niall’s hands, and shrugs. “Never seen it before in my life.”

 --

 Niall puts it off for as long as he can, until it’s February fourth and they’ve got ten days until the announcement and Louis and Liam are out of town and he’s alone, bored, and a little antsy in LA.

 Harry just landed a few hours ago, Niall knows, but he’s _bored_. And he’s had a beer or two. And he’s watched a couple episodes of that show, the one where they give people crazy tattoos and watch how they react. And he’s emboldened, maybe, by the way the people on TV don’t look like they’re in pain at all. And then he’s picking up the phone before he can think too much about it, plucking Harry’s contact out from where it sits at #8 on his favorites, and pressing it to his ear.

It only takes two rings before he answers, chipper, on the other end of the line, for someone who’s just gotten off a flight from Tokyo to LAX.

“I’m ready,” says Niall, in lieu of a greeting, “and if I don’t do it right now I’ll chicken out.”

“Be there in twenty,” says Harry, without having to ask, “take an Advil now. See you soon.”

 -- 

Normally, you’re supposed to make an appointment for these things, Niall learns when Harry leads them into a quiet tattoo shop in Echo Park. But they’re _them_ , after all, and Harry knows this place, gets inked here often, knows it’s reliably quiet and reliably good good and, reliably, that they’ll be able to squeeze Niall in without any prior notice. It’s 9pm, anyway, on a Tuesday in early February, Harry reassures him. No one but them is out.

 He leads them in through the back door, marked “employees only,” but unlocked. The shop’s alarm system beeps, quietly, as Harry lets Niall in ahead of him, and a short, small man pops his head around the corner. Niall watches as his face lights up with recognition.

 “Hey, Harry!”

 “Hey, Steve,” Harry brushes past Niall, gentle, and it definitely doesn’t make Niall’s skin rush, in a way it doesn’t, usually, unless he’s about to take someone home. It’s nerves, if anything.

 He doesn’t listen, distracted by the light buzzing sounds of tattoo guns and flourescent lightbulbs and whatever the hell his nerve endings are doing, while Harry chats up Steve, whoever he is, and explains why they’ve turned up. He’s good at this, Harry—buttering people up, but doing it so genuinely, so honestly, with so much kindness, that they can’t even tell he just wants something. He’s impossibly charming—no one, except maybe Louis, at this point, is immune.

 It’s mostly a fog, anxiety beginning to press down on Niall from all sides, as he’s ushered further into the shop and to a private room tucked into one corner. He plops himself down into the seat with shaky legs, nodding, mindlessly, and Steve opens up needles and a pot of ink and explains to Niall, in a steady, but distracted voice, what’s about to happen. He feels himself starting to get worked up, his leg jittering, his heart hammering, his skin flushing, when Harry’s hand lands on his forearm, warm, except for the shock of his rings.

“Here,” Harry’s holding a bottle of water in his free hand, presumably from the stock inside the mini fridge. He’s already taken a few sips, but he passes it to Niall, anyway, “have some water, Niall.”

 Niall hadn’t realized how dry his mouth felt, like he’d shoved it full of cotton pads. He takes the water gratefully, barely able to wheeze out a, “thanks, pet,” to Harry, who beams down and squeezes his wrist.

 He doesn’t let go.

Instead, he slides his hand down and laces his fingers up with Niall’s, his thumb gently running over the back of Niall’s hand. It feels like he’s on fire; Niall clutches the tiny water bottle in his free hand like the gear shift in a speeding car.

Steve leans in to inspect Niall’s ankle and lower calf, his leg propped up on the reclining part of the seat. He studies it, so intensely that Niall starts to twitch, before sitting up and saying,  “we can get away with not shaving. Are you ready?” 

 _Fuck no_ is the only thing Niall can think. He’s gaping like a fish, making a complete imbecile out of himself, floundering like he used to, in school, when the teacher called on him and he was daydreaming about Derby matches instead of paying attention. He feels terrified and hopeless, out and alone in open water, the way he felt immediately after the hiatus began, until Harry’s lips are at his ear, messy curls falling to brush his cheek and form a curtain between them and Steve, lips touching his skin, as he whispers, “just imagine the look on Louis’ face when he finds out you did this without him. We’ve got this. It’s gonna look sick.”

Something kicks in Niall’s stomach—he knows what it is, but he swallows it, has too much to focus on right now—and as Harry pulls his lips away Niall’s able to nod, twice, and say, “go for it.”

It really does only take five minutes. And it’s less painful than the time Louis spent an hour snapping a rubber band against his abdomen. Mostly, it’s the sound that freaks Niall out—the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the hum of the lights, the squeak of the chair as Steve adjusts. But it’s over before it even begins: five minutes later and Niall’s got a tiny little ‘X’ tattooed on his ankle, matching the one on Harry’s, Liam’s, Louis’, and Zayn’s. And he’s got Harry, too, still holding his hand.

The tattoo is on the house, so long as Niall agrees to Instagram it and tag Steve (Niall figures it’ll be a good way to rile fans up—he won’t even need a caption, he thinks, everyone will know what the tattoo means. He’ll spark the rumors now, keep everyone on their toes for next week), but Harry gives him a $100 tip anyway, holding his hand out to stop Niall when he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. Harry bends down to get a good look at the tattoo after he pays, squatting to sit on the backs of his ankles, one hand on Niall’s thigh to keep himself balanced.

 “Looks exactly like mine,” he croons, smiling up at Niall through the hair that’s fallen into his face. “When we get home let’s take a picture of our tattoos next to each other.”

 “You have a matching one?” Steve asks, before Niall’s able to process how he feels about the look on Harry’s face.

 “Yeah,” Harry stands up with ease, those fucking thighs of his, “same spot and everything.” He slings an arm over Niall’s shoulder, knocking his body with his own.

 Steve gives them a knowing smile, Niall’s stomach lurches forward, and Steve says, “you two are close, then?”

“The _closest_ ,” Harry emphasizes. Niall can’t quite tell, for once, if he’s hamming it up or just being dense.

Steve laughs, then hands over a little baggie with after care instructions. Niall accepts it with shaking hands as Steve says, “hey, good for you guys. I’m happy for you. Make sure he takes care of that tattoo, will ya, Harry?”

“Every night,” Harry promises, his arm still tight around Niall’s shoulder. “No excuses.”

\--

“You know,” Niall says, once they’re alone in the car, clearing his throat as the words get caught back there, fighting to stay down in his chest, “I think Steve thought we were, like, a thing.”

Harry doesn’t look at him, but Niall notices the way his fingers hover, just for a second, over the power button on his car stereo. He drops his hand, doesn’t turn it on, says, “does that bug you?”

“I’m—I mean, we’re not dating? It doesn’t—”

“Because that’s, like, really fucking straight of you,” Harry cuts him off, “to have a problem with people thinking you’re ‘a thing’ with another guy.”

 “That’s not the problem, H—”

“But there _is_ a problem?” Harry sounds venomous, and it scares Niall, a little, the way he’s staring at him. He hasn’t seen Harry look like this in a long, long time—not since Zayn, he thinks, feeling his body heat up with anxiety.

Niall rushes to speak, “it’s not a problem, Harry. I don’t care if people think we’re dating, and I don’t care if randoms know I’m not straight, I just thought—”

“ _Know_?”

For half a second, the world falls out underneath Niall. For half a second, the track of a rollercoaster ends, and he goes soaring over the edge, free falling to certain death. For half a second, he considers where he can run to, hide to, and never come back again. But then he remembers this is Harry, _his_ Harry, and, if he really thinks about it, there’s no one, on planet Earth, better to accidentally come out to than Harry.

“I, erm,” still, Niall’s throat feels dry, and his tattoo is itching something fierce, his skin is screaming, his mind is protesting, his heart is threatening to work itself to an attack, but Harry’s looking at him, face soft, now, eyes wide, searching, just one or two words away from lighting up, and Niall knows he can keep going. He knows he wants to keep going.

“Yeah. I haven’t—you’re the first person I’ve told, except, erm, the guys I’ve… I kind of realized near the end, last time, in like 2015, because you were always—on stage, you know? All up in my face. And afterward I would be—I was like, _this isn’t straight_ , like, how my body is reacting? And how much I liked it? And I, like, did some Googling, I guess. And I thought back about the lot of the stuff I had felt and thought and wanted to do when I was a teenager, with my guy friends, like. And I read this book about being bisexual and I just kind of liked how…” Niall takes a deep breath, blinking back the tears that are fighting at the corners of his eyes. He’s never said any of this aloud before. Harry looks like he might pass out at any moment. “I just. It all made sense. Reading the book and learning about bisexualty and looking back on, like, my entire life. It felt _right_ when I said it, I liked the way it felt and the way it fit and I. Yeah.”

It’s like that one time he did yoga, weirdly. When the instructor came around and told him to take the biggest breath he’d ever taken in his life and then just exhale. As much as he could. All at once. And he exhaled for what felt like a hundred years, felt lightheaded, weightless, completely absolved, empty but somehow impossibly full, afterward. He feels like he was just born, like he just he just ran for 100 miles and his lungs are raw and every breath he takes is brand new and perfect. He feels fucking _light_ , like he never imagined, like every cliche about getting a weight off your chest was actually, entirely, 100% true.  

And he’s not even scared, is the thing. That knot in his stomach, the one that’s always there, isn’t pressing at him. He doesn’t feel like he need to pick at his cuticles or play with his hair or bounce his leg. Nothing matters—he said it, and Harry looks like he’s been hit upside the head with a brick, and Niall’s never felt better.

“I—” Harry clears his throat, blinks his eyes, and starts again, “I’m sorry I called you straight.”

Niall chokes on his laughter, just beginning to recover when Harry bursts into a fit of giggles himself, that laugh he only gets sometimes, when it’s just them, when no one else is watching. They laugh for what feels like forever, the two of them, until Niall is gasping for breath and Harry is laughing silently, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes, smile bursting his dimples. It’s the best Niall has ever felt, in his whole entire life. He couldn’t possibly feel better than this.

But, of course, Harry proves him wrong.

 -- 

The Instagram post, taken by Harry later that night, does exactly what Niall expected it to. And nine days later, at 11:59 on the thirteenth, the four of them are holed up in Niall’s living room, anxiety bouncing around in their stomachs, waiting for their announcement to drop at midnight. They had demanded it be like this, this time around: just the four of them, no team, no minders, no one but them—a reminder of why they’re doing this, of what’s important, of how badly they want to start again.

 Louis sees it first, refreshes his feed right at midnight, catches the video announcement before there’s even a single like, comment, or view. It’s a black screen, ten seconds of silence, then a clip of their first single back and flashing pictures of their faces, uploaded to all four Instagram accounts, and the One Direction HQ one, at the exact same time.

By the time Niall refreshes a second and a half later, his post already has hundreds of likes. Harry’s already has comments.

Liam waits a full minute and a half, makes sure people have enough time to actually watch the video, before refreshing his feed to thousands of comments and mass hysteria.

They’ve done it.

And, holy shit, Niall’s never felt so good.

The room is absolutely electric, even though it’s just the four of them in Niall’s house, midnight settling around them outside. Louis is reading comments aloud with a smile on his face, and Liam looks so bright, so delighted, in a way Niall hasn’t seen since they were teenagers, not yet jaded, not yet worked to the bone. Even Harry is reading his Instagram comments for the first time in years, jabbing Niall in the thigh every few seconds to say things like, “listen to this one, Niall, she wrote ‘literally murder me it would be kinder.’ Imagine I did that? Like, showed up at her house with a knife?” Niall’s never felt less alone, really, than he does now, with the sounds of Louis and Liam shouting over each other, Harry mumbling quietly underneath them, his own heart jackrabbiting in his chest. All at once, it’s like it’s always been this way and like it’s been a million years since it’s been this way.

The tattoo on Niall’s ankle has stopped itching by now, but he feels it burning, searing into his skin, demanding him to acknowledge its permanence. He likes the pain even if it’s imaginary, reaches down to press his fingers against the ink on his ankle, smiling up at Liam, who’s watching the video announcement for the thousandth time and whispering “siiiiiick” to no one in particular every few seconds.

Louis breaks the reviere a minute or two later, tossing his phone onto Niall’s couch and saying, “I think it’s time we properly celebrate, lads. I can’t believe I’m spending my Valentine’s Day with you twats, but have you got any champagne, Niall?” 

“Yeah,” Niall can’t move, not right now, not with the way Harry’s thigh is pressed against his here on the couch, not with the electricity searing through his veins, not with the way he’s just remembered what it felt like to be not alone, “in the bar, downstairs.”

 Louis seems to understand, hauling himself up from the couch with a smile and tossing a, “come along, Payno, if I get murdered in Niall’s basement it’s not gonna be alone,” over his shoulder. Liam follows like a puppy dog, practically sprinting after him, leaving Niall and Harry, alone, together, with the weight—or maybe it’s the levity—what’s just happened between them.

 Harry, for one, doesn’t seem to care.

 “We did it,” he says, slowly, turning to face Niall. His eyes are bright, despite the late hour, as a soft smile stretches across his face, skin tanned, cheeks flushing, “happy Valentine’s Day.”

 It hits Niall a little sideways, happy Valentine’s Day. Harry’s not saying it like—like—like the way he says Happy Christmas, or Happy St. Patrick’s Day, or happy Whatever. He’s saying it all soft, and gentle, and just for Niall, just for the space between them, just for the way his eyes twinkle a little and he leans in a little closer and he drops his hand onto Niall’s knee, confident, gently demanding.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a few days,” he continues, before Niall can find his voice and wish him a happy Valentine’s Day back. “The other day, in the car. You said, erm, that you started to realize… when we—when I. Onstage?”

Suddenly, Niall’s tattoo starts to itch again. He resists the urge to rub his shoe against it, instead picks at his cuticles and focuses intently on the lighter on his coffee table as he answers, “Yeah. And sometimes off stage, too, like, when we used to cuddle and stuff… I’m sorry. If that makes you feel weird or anything. I didn’t want to—I’m sorry.”

 “No, no,” Harry rushes, lurches forward, slides his hand up from Niall’s knee to his thigh. They both look down at his hand, then, slowly, back up at each other, “you know I did that stuff because, like, I liked it too, right?”

“Oh,” Liam and Louis could come back in any minute. Harry could be kidding. This could end in complete fucking disaster. Niall doesn’t care.

 “I didn’t realize,” Harry continues, pressing his hand a little firmer into Niall’s skin, “I had no idea you liked it. Otherwise I would’ve—I would’ve been clearer. About my feelings.”

“You were pretty clear, H,” Niall can’t help the laugh that scrapes its way out of his throat. “I just wasn’t sure yet. And I, erm. I didn’t know if it was feelings or just, you know, your dick.”

 Harry doesn’t laugh, just shifts closer to Niall and carries on, opens his mouth, punctures Niall’s entire heart, declares, “it was feelings. It’s still feelings. I mean, my dick is involved in those feelings, to be clear. But it’s feelings.”

 “It’s,” Niall’s gaping, again, the world is unsteady around him, his brain is working a million miles an hour and short circuiting at the same time, “ _still_ feelings?”

Harry nods, inches impossibly closer. “Is that… okay?”

 For all Niall calls himself a songwriter, it’s really remarkable how much he’s struggling to find the right thing to say right now. There are more appropriate words than ‘okay’ out there, he knows, but he can only think of ‘fucking fantastic,’ or something equally stupid, and fuck, he can’t live with himself, will never be able to look anyone in the eye ever again, if his response to Harry finally, finally, confessing his feelings for him is fucking ‘okay.’

Harry, though, for all his mindlessness, knows Niall in a way no one else could ever. And so when Niall fails to answer he just leans in, sliding his hand up, up, up, the other coming to cup Niall’s jawline, and finally—fucking finally—kisses him.

 It’s weird, for half a second, kissing the person who made you realize you’re not straight. Kissing Harry has been nothing but a fantasy for nearly a decade now, an impossible dream that Niall had long ago accepted would never come true, one he tucked away, felt ashamed of, felt ashamed for feeling ashamed of. But here he is, now, soft in some places and angular in others and he smells like coconut and he’s kissing Niall, sliding his tongue into his mouth and dragging his hand down from his jaw to his neck and it’s not perfect but it’s good, great, better than any kiss Niall’s ever had, ever. It’s this realization, as he lifts himself up by the hips without breaking the kiss and settles himself into Harry’s lap, that every other person he’s kissed, guys and girls, up until now, has just been practice for kissing Harry.

 Harry’s got one hand on Niall’s bum, now, sliding up under his jumper and resting on the small of his back, cold rings against his flushed skin. It’s amazing how long Harry can go without breathing, really, like Niall’s the only thing he wants to inhale, like he’s been training for this his whole life. He thinks he has, maybe, when he bites down on Niall’s lip and feels the way his body reacts as Niall hisses into his mouth. He’s grinding his hips down too, now, and Harry’s sure he could keep doing this until he day he dies.

They can’t stop, stubble scratching each other’s necks, lips leaving marks, kissing, and kissing, and kissing, and kissing, until—

 “Payno!” Louis calls, and Niall can hear the smile on his face even from here, his lips glued to Harry’s, his eyes still shut, “you owe me £20!”

 

####

**Author's Note:**

> first things first, this fic would never have seen the light of day without sarah, narrymybed. there is no way I could possibly overstate the amount of emotional labor she put into helping me slog through this fic, especially when I hated it and was two seconds away from scrapping it. she is a fucking angel, and this is my palentine’s day gift to her. 
> 
> second things second, this fic would be much worse for wear without the help of my sweet sweet lillie, natalie, and meike. you guys were invaluably helpful especially with niall’s coming out scene, but also just by always being there with support, humor, memes, and plenty of narry thirst. I love you all so, so much and I am so, so lucky to know you. 
> 
> third things third, you might have noticed a little shout out/easter egg in here to my favorite fic: uncertainly principle. it’s not my fic and I don’t know the author, but UP is so, so important to me. it helped me fall back in love with writing, reading, and niall and harry. like, singlehandedly. I don’t think anything has ever gotten under my skin like UP has. the little shout out just came to me, and I am by no means suggesting that this takes place in the same universe, just meditating on the fact that all the infinite narry universes can and do exist at the same time, and sometimes bits and pieces fall into each other. I hope that’s okay. (and thank you to jenna, too, who read that bit for me beforehand! ily!)
> 
> fourthly! lol. this fic is based slightly off a really popular tumblr text post, which i will link as SOON as I get onto a computer. (that being said, sorry if the formatting here is whack. I was determined to get this up today so I did it on my phone which is not ideal. I’ll fix everything once I’m on the computer again)
> 
> and finally, thank you so, so, so, so much from the bottom of my heart for reading! I had big dreams with this fic and I fell short of them but I finished, and I’m proud of that. Happy Valentine’s Day, I hope you’re feeling very loved, and I hope you love spending time with narry. I love you!! xx
> 
> if you ever want to talk narry or writing or anything, you know where to find me. byesexualniall on tumblr, too! I love you.


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